Have
you been for a run lately? If not, I'm sure someone's told you all about how
wonderful a passtime it is. That or you've been kept updated via
Facebook of some runner's latest performance. They usually read
something like this:
“47.38!
Delighted!!! Well done to everyone involved!! Now for that long
awaited pint and crisps! :)”
As
easy a target as such statements are, I'm going to refrain from
poking fun at them. This is because I too like to run. And I understand someone wanting to share their satisfaction at meeting or
beating a self-set goal. Even if broadcasting their achievement
defies the inherently internal reasons for running in the first
place.
For the record, my running career started in 2008 with some light
jogging around a nearby green. In the intervening years, I have built
up my distance to about 10km. Nothing special.
But
I don't run as much as I used to. As with most exercise regimes, the
deficit between effort and reward soon becomes a grievance. The problem is either running too hard or not hard enough. Too often, I find myself
regretting not giving that little bit more or that little bit less,
depending on whether or not I still feel a little restless, or so battered
that any other activity is relegated from my day.
Low-frequency running has actually worked out well. The tedium of daily
excursions has been replaced by a genuine anticipation of getting out
in the elements. By strange coincidence, my runs have become a lot more
eventful.
Earlier
this year, I was running in Castlecomer Discovery Park when a
representative of the local wildlife (a very large duck) expressed disapproval at my choice of route. It was only after he spread his wings to a
four-foot diameter and started to charge at me aggressively that I
realised something was wrong. Nearby fishermen had a great time
laughing at the sight of a grown man being chased from his preferred
route by a duck, who's proud quack I took as some kind of jibe.
More
recently, I put my running to use in the mould of a concerned
citizen. I was watching TV at home when, through the corner of my
eye, I noticed a hooded figure dart across my front lawn. This was
followed by what sounded like the attempted opening of my locked front door. The figure's quick reversal in direction
convinced me that he was up to no good. Knowing that going upstairs to get the key would waste valuable seconds, I exited through the back door and ran around my house to
give chase. By the time I was out on the road, he had been
picked up by a red van. Still running, I gave the van's occupants an ironic wave, as if to warn them off trying anything like that again. But on my
way back inside to contact local authorities, I noticed the latest issue
of the Golden Pages by my front doorstep. Only then did I realise that the sound of the "burglar" trying to open my door was
actually that of the Golden Pages hitting the ground. And that this wasn't a break in; it was a phone book delivery.
Another peculiarity happened just the other day. I was navigating the
lanes surrounding St Canice's Cathedral when a dull sound of screaming caused me to stop. After ensuring that it wasn't another dose of
acute paranoia, I ran onto Church grounds to investigate. Approaching the entrance, I deduced that the voices were those of young
Americans. One male. One female.
"CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME?!"
"HELP
US!"
The intermittent
thudding on a small door signalled that the helpless cries were
coming from inside the 9th century round-tower. I ran over to the
bottom of the step ladder and announced my arrival.
"Hello?"
Their
response was instant.
"Oh
THANK GOD!! HELP US!! WE'RE TRAPPED INSIDE THE TOWER!!"
There
was a moment of silence as I digested the news. The parallels with
a Hollywood horror were glaring.
This
Christmas...Get ready...For The Dream Holiday...That Became...Their
Worst Nightmare...In Ireland's Most Haunted Tower!
Eventually,
I told them to "hold tight" while I went looking for help.
I
ran around the grounds a few times before coming across a teenage
boy. He looked about sixteen. Disinterested. In everything.
"Do
you work here?" I asked.
"Wha.."
he muttered.
"There's
some people trapped in the tower!"
"Yeah?"
he replied, in what sounded like indifference, but was probably just not up to the drama that my earlier exchanges with the Americans
demanded.
"I'm
going to call into the vicar's house" I told him, already
breaking into another run. "If you see anyone, let them know!"
My
call to the attached house was fruitless. Much to my disappointment.
I was kind of hoping for some sort of Dickensian exchange of
information, in which I would bestow the news on the Vicar in a
cockney accent, before being rewarded with a hot meal later that evening.
When I
ran back to the Cathedral, there was a gardener finishing up some raking. Somehow, he had missed my previous encirclements. He reacted with considerable calm and went to fetch the key. In the meantime, I
went to let my American friends know that everything was going to be ok; that they were going to make it home for Christmas after all..
"THANK
YOU! THANK YOU SO MUCH!!" they rejoiced.
Before
long, a woman from inside the Cathedral arrived with the key in hand.
The beleaguered visitors exited the tower emitting
a cacophony of sighs and exclamations of relief. They
looked exactly how they sounded. Early twenties, college kids.
Brushing
off the woman's apologies, they were bereft of any complaints or
indignation. Upon
further questioning, they told us their plight had lasted half an
hour. They
were a lot quieter now, for obvious reasons. It started getting awkward. What more was there to say? Or do? I bade them farewell and
ran away home.
